


Of Guns and Drums and Wounds

by harborshore



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare, Second Tetralogy - Shakespeare
Genre: D/s, Face Slapping, Fix-It of Sorts, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied Infidelity (though Kate will presumably be told all this and enjoy it very much), M/M, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Whipping, Yuleporn, but quite consensual, not Shakespearean-level dialogue (I know my limits)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: On the eve of battle, Hal goes to visit Hotspur.Hotspur laughs, incredulous. “You’re favoured to win, and you’re asking for peace? Did half your army walk into a bog?”Hal looks at him, steady. There’s history between them, history that absolutely no one else knows about, and he wills Hotspur to remember that history now, and to see the change in him when he says, “I’m going to be king, Harry. I’m going to be king, and if we meet in single combat tomorrow, as we both know I will ask for, I will kill you. But I’d rather be king and have you with me. It would be better for the realm.”“Better for the realm, he says,” Hotspur says, pulling up his chair and sprawling in it, and there’s that look, that calculating look that comes after the temper which makes Hotspur a terror in the field. “Why’re you on your knees, then, if you’re asking as my future king?”“Well,” Hal says, “I thought I might sweeten the pot, a little.”
Relationships: Prince Hal (Shakespeare)/Henry "Hotspur" Percy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Of Guns and Drums and Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



While it’s disturbingly easy to wind his way through the camp without discovery, even to plant himself in Hotspur’s tent to wait, he doesn’t anticipate this being an easy conversation. Thus, his sword-belt may be on the ground in front of him where he kneels, as an offering, but he still has two daggers on his person. Hal is here to ask for peace, but he isn’t stupid.

“What in the name of the devil and all his pissants are you doing here, then?” Hotspur says when he enters at last. Happily (for Hal’s sake), he’s quite alone.

“Oh,” Hal says, nodding at the sword, “I’ve come to ask if your lot won’t consider a peace agreement.”

Hotspur laughs, incredulous. “You’re favoured to win, and you’re asking for peace? Did half your army walk into a bog?”

Hal looks at him, steady. There’s history between them, history that absolutely no one else knows about, and he wills Hotspur to remember that history now, and to see the change in him when he says, “I’m going to be king, Harry. I’m going to be king, and if we meet in single combat tomorrow, as we both know I will ask for, I will kill you. But I’d rather be king and have you with me. It would be better for the realm.”

“Better for the realm, he says,” Hotspur says, pulling up his chair and sprawling in it, and there’s that look, that calculating look that comes after the temper which makes Hotspur a terror in the field. “Why’re you on your knees, then, if you’re asking as my future king?”

“Well,” Hal says, “I thought I might sweeten the pot, a little.”

Hotspur smiles, and maybe this conversation won’t be so difficult, if Hotspur is already smiling like that. Hal used to be able to talk him into anything when he smiled like that.

“Do you know,” Hotspur says, considering, “that doesn’t sound half bad. There’ve been some insults that have been hard to swallow, mostly slung by that bloody father of yours, and I wouldn’t mind taking them out of your hide.”

That sounds perfectly acceptable to Hal, and is at least in part what he came to propose. Having Harry Percy look at you like he wants to take you apart is a satisfactory prelude to the negotiations and bodes well for what comes after, but they need to straighten something out first.

“I will be king,” he says, steady. “And you’ll be my advisor, and I’ll take your advice in public and your cock in private, if that is agreeable to us both, but I will be king.”

Hotspur makes an impatient gesture. “I never wanted to be king,” he says. “That wasn’t what this was about. I’ll take no more of what we’ve been made to swallow. I’ll have your trust, majesty, or there’s nothing further we can do here.”

“I’ve always trusted you,” Hal says. That was his father’s biggest mistake, after all, not recognising that someone like Hotspur only needed to have his head and to feel his trust, and he would run so far and so brilliantly that you only had to stand back and let him do it. Hal fully expects him to conquer half of Europe, truth be told. “But you’ll have to do as I say, Harry Percy, can you obey orders?”

“I can take orders,” Hotspur says, glancing pointedly at the way Hal kneels. ”Can you, O king?”

“You know I can,” Hal says, grinning now, because he can feel Hotspur agreeing, which means tomorrow will have an ending that isn’t about blood, an ending that is better for his country and immeasurably, incomparably better for him. In some ways, he knows, this proves he’s still the selfish prince. No matter.

“I do know,” Hotspur says softly, the way a knife can sink gently into flesh if you know what you’re doing. Oh, he can do subtle when he needs, Harry Percy; that temper of his is like fire and it burns you just as well when it’s banked as when it’s alight.

Hal nods at his sword belt. “Yours for the night,” he says.

“Indeed,” Hotspur says. “How about you bring it to me then?” His smile is sharp.

Hal nods and makes to rise, but Hotspur shakes his head. “Stay on your knees,” he says, sharper still, and Hal draws a breath, his cock stirring.

“Yes,” he says, biting back the honorific he feels lurking behind his teeth, and begins to crawl.

Crawling on hard ground is hell on your knees, and dragging a sword belt by your teeth doesn’t make it easier, but the point isn’t for this to be easy. The point is for Hal to feel the indignity of it, so that his father’s insults are paid for, and Hotspur can back down tomorrow without being unmanned for it.

Whatever the point is, he likes it, and Hotspur knows it.

Coming up to Hotspur, he drops the sword belt from his mouth and kneels up, looking at Hotspur, waiting. Hotspur lets him wait, eyes sliding down his body and up again, resting on the way his cockstand is beginning to show through his breeches.

“Not bad,” he says.

Hal raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” Hotspur says, “You could give me more to look at, you know. The tarts who come to my tent generally wear a lot less.”

That’s a challenge, then. Hal begins to divest himself of his garments, but when he gets to his breeches and makes to stand, Hotspur shakes his head.

“You stay on your knees,” he says. “I think I’ll start with your mouth.”

When Hal shuffles closer and reaches for the fastening of his breeches, he shakes his head again, taking a rather firm hold of his hair.

“Your mouth, I said,” he says gently.

Hal thinks of that knife sliding into flesh again and tugs experimentally against the hold on his hair. Hotspur pulls properly on his hair, then, and Hal can’t help it, he moans.

“And you said you could take orders,” Hotspur says regretfully, and slaps his face. Hard. He’ll stand and receive the peace agreement tomorrow with this mark on his face, it’s that hard. As is his prick; as it might be tomorrow, if Hotspur looks at him then the way he does right now, this hungrily.

“I can,” Hal promises.

“Hands behind your back then, majesty.” And that’s an insult, too, because his father is still king, and Hal will be, and yet he’s taking both their punishments right now, on his knees. He nods, obeying, clasping one wrist with his other hand.

Keeping a hand in his hair, clenched tight, Hotspur unfastens his own breeches, and oh, Hal missed that cock. His mouth waters at the sight and he strains against the hold in his hair.

“Greedy tart,” Hotspur says, sounding amused. “You want to choke on my prick, then, so that everyone will hear it tomorrow?”

Yes, Hal does, though no one will know what they’re hearing except Hotspur. They’ll think he’s been drinking, probably, still the irresponsible prince. It’s a fair price to pay, and he’ll pay it. He nods with difficulty, relishing the sharp pulls against his scalp when Hotspur doesn’t relax his hold.

“Get to it, then,” Hotspur says, and pulls Hal in.

He does choke, because he’s not given the chance to get used to the width and length of Hotspur’s cock before being pulled down, but he’s also straining for it, so it’s at least half his own fault. Hotspur pulls him up, shaking his head.

“Been a while?” he asks knowingly.

Hal clears his throat, coughing a little. “I can’t help it if most men have smaller pricks than you, Harry Percy,” he says, and is rewarded with a laugh and a second slap to the other cheek, not quite as hard.

“Try again,” Hotspur suggests, and his pull is slightly less forceful, this time, so Hal has time to remember to breathe through his nose and to enjoy it. Fuck, he’s missed this.

So has Hotspur, judging by the way he holds Hal down and pulls him up again, not letting go for even a second, and the way he pushes Hal into a rhythm, deep and steady. Hal wishes he were allowed to touch his own cock, because it’s uncomfortably hard right now, just from sucking a cock on his knees, his hands clasped behind his back.

He moans around Hotspur’s prick, which makes Hotspur pull him off and look down.

“Well,” he says, and there’s that knife-sharp smile again. “Spread your knees, majesty, that looks uncomfortable.”

Hal does, and it is, but he also wants to continue, so he pulls against the hold on his hair, trying to get back on that cock.

“No, no,” Hotspur says, nudging one of his knees slightly wider with the tip of his boot. “No, I want to look at you. That desperate from a cock down your throat, are you?”

Hal just looks at him. Hotspur shakes him a little.

“Answer,” Hotspur says, and slaps him again. That’s absolutely going to be obvious at the peace talks tomorrow, and Hal will have to have an explanation ready for his father. Somehow.

“Yes,” he says, licking his lips. “I’m that desperate from a cock down my throat.”

Hotspur smiles. “I like you desperate,” he says.

Hal does too. Especially when Hotspur is looking at him like that.

“Are you going to do anything about it?” he says innocently, grinning at the spark it lights in Hotspur’s gaze.

“I may,” Hotspur says. “If you make it worth my while.”

Hal licks his lips. “Whatever you want,” he promises recklessly.

Hotspur laughs. “I should ask for territories now,” he says musingly, his free hand cupping Hal’s jaw, thumb pressing into his swollen lip. “You’d give them to me just so I’d slap you around some more, wouldn’t you?”

Hal pulls against the hand on his hair for real then, and Hotspur glances at him, gentling his grip. “I wouldn’t,” he says, which makes Hal relax, “and you’ll get what you want, majesty, but you’re going to have to wait. We’re not here for your gratification.”

Hal would argue that point, because he’s getting a lot of what he wants here, but Hotspur chooses that moment to pull him back onto his cock, and fuck, that’s good.

“I should call my men in here,” he says, holding Hal down for a second before pulling him back up again. “Your mouth, sire, is too good not to be shared.”

Hal flushes. Hotspur would never, but the idea is—his cock throbs with it, the thought of service on his knees, of not having to think. He thinks of Ned and the way he served him, too, and how heavy the crown will weigh, the many things he’ll have to leave behind. But if he can have this with Hotspur, if he can forget it all sometimes, it might weigh a little less.

Hotspur makes an aggrieved noise and drags him upright on his knees by his hair. “What’ve I told you about teeth?” He says, which is a filthy lie. Hal would never.

He almost says so, except he can see the gleam in Hotspur’s eye and stops himself in time, says, “I’m sorry,” trying to look penitent.

“You will be,” Hotspur promises, shaking him a little. “Now turn around.

Hal shuffles around on his knees and Hotspur lets go of his hair to tie his wrists together. Hal pulls, but he’s absolutely caught, and moans as he feels it.

“I have you,” Hotspur says, running a hand up his bare back. “Now get up.”

Getting his legs under him, Hal rises, a little wobbly, but Hotspur steadies him and pushes him forward two steps before unfastening his breeches and pulling them down together with his smalls, and bending him over the cot set up there.

“Not bad,” he says, running a hand over Hal’s flank. “Not bad at all, majesty.”

Hal grins, rubbing his face against the rough blanket, no doubt worsening the flush already there.

“Of course,” Hotspur says, “there’s the little matter of penance. For your teeth just now, and for what the king your father did to us.” There’s a dangerous note in his voice, but it only serves to make Hal the harder for it, pushing his cock against the cot.

“Where’s that sword belt,” Hotspur says, as if to himself, and Hal flushes hard then, because of course. Of course. He gave it to Hotspur himself; Hotspur was always going to make use of it.

“Ah.” There’s rustling behind him, and Hal hears his sword fall to the ground. Which is an insult, or would be ordinarily, but Hal isn’t moving.

“Now, how many, do you think?” Hotspur says musingly.

Hal doesn’t want to decide. He shakes his head.

“No, you’ll take what I give you, won’t you. For the king your father, and for the peace treaty, and because you like it, you randy fuck.”

It’s true. It’s all too true. Hal closes his eyes and lets Hotspur’s voice wash over him, insult mingled with filthy appreciation, and he forgets, almost, what Hotspur promised, until the first hit, hard enough to cut right through his thoughts.

“Ah—“ he says, and Hotspur laughs behind him.

“Count, majesty,” he says, which gives Hal something to tether his thoughts to, numbers spilling from his lips. God, it hurts. For once, he can’t think.

“Five, fuck, six,” he gets out before his voice cracks, which makes Hotspur pause, kneeling next to him and rubbing over his upturned arse. Comfort and more torture, all at once.

Studying Hal’s face, he says, “I think you can take a bit more, can’t you?”

Hal licks his lips, nodding. He can. He knows he can, he can take a lot more, and especially if Hotspur asks him to.

“I want you to not be able to sit down tomorrow,” Hotspur tells him, smiling at whatever that does to Hal’s face. “I want you to have to make excuses for it, and only I’ll know why.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hal says, and thinks fleetingly that perhaps he can get Hotspur to be equally mean to him before particularly aggravating council meetings. It would make them a lot easier to - well, not sit through, precisely, but cope with.

“Good,” Hotspur says, that smile growing sharper, like he can tell what Hal is thinking, and rises to his feet. Hal closes his eyes.

“Keep counting, majesty,” Hotspur says, and hits him again. And again. The hits sear across Hal’s skin and across his mind, whiting out everything else.

“Seven, shit, eight, nine, fuck, please, ten-eleven-twelve, fuck, fuck, fifteen—“ which makes Hotspur pause again.

“Did you skip two?” he says dangerously. Hal definitely did.

“No?” he says.

“Try again,” Hotspur suggests, and hits him.

“Thirteen,” Hal gets out, voice cracking again. Fuck, it hurts.

“Better,” Hotspur says. “Let’s see if we can get to twenty.”

God. That didn’t use to be hard to take, but it’s been a long while since someone worked him over.

“Fourteen, fifteen, fuck,” Hal gets out. It’s getting so difficult not to move out of the way, his body trying to overrule his brain, wanting to preserve his skin.

“It’s going to hurt to get on a horse tomorrow,” Hotspur says. He’s close again, tracing over Hal’s thighs. “How I will enjoy that, watching you ride in, feeling it still.”

Hal grins into the blanket. “So will I,” he says.

Hotspur laughs.

“No one takes it like you, majesty,” he says. “Makes me want to hurt you some more, it really does.”

“So do it,” Hal says, and he wants it now, those last five hits, and whatever else Hotspur can dish out.

“Five more,” Hotspur says, “and—we won’t be even, exactly, but it’s a start.”

Perhaps he’ll leave here having paid enough for his father’s sins, at least, Hal thinks, closing his eyes and then Hotspur starts and he’s counting again, “sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, shit, shit, nineteen, twenty, oh, fuck—“

His eyes are wet.

“Good,” murmurs Hotspur, touching him. “You’re not finished yet, but that was good.”

“Yes,” Hal says, rubbing his face against the blanket. It feels good, the way Hotspur’s hands rub over his skin now, like he’s a horse being rubbed down after a hard, hard ride. And hard he is, too, now the pain’s gone from searing hits to a steady throb.

Hotspur makes a considering noise, sitting down next to him on the cot.

“Trying to decide, here,” he says. His hand is on Hal’s arse, proprietary.

Hal draws a breath. That tone of voice means a devil’s choice.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m trying to decide on?” Hotspur says, squeezing Hal’s cheek, digging in until Hal can’t stifle a noise of pain.

“What?” he says, licking his lips.

Hotspur tuts, moving so Hal can see him and tugging hard at his hair. “I’ll allow it,” he says, “but you’ll be more polite before you leave here.” It’s a statement of fact, not a threat, and Hal loves it, the way Hotspur can bring him to heel. No one else has ever been able to.

“What?” he says again, grinning at the way it makes something dangerous steal across Hotspur’s face.

“Whether or not to fuck you straight away, or to even out this color first,” he says.

Hal’s mouth goes dry. More, or. He can’t think.

Hotspur grins, the predator fully out now. “There’s my answer, I think,” he says, and tightens his grip on Hal’s hair.

“On your feet, and then over my lap,” he says, pulling hard. Hal almost falls off the cot, but Hotspur is strong enough to steady him and reorient him while moving himself, and so Hal finds himself tipped over his lap before he can think about it, arse up, breeches still around his knees, tethering them together. He’s too tall for this, usually, but Hotspur can make anything work. He’s snagged a bottle of something too, which was sitting on the ground near some tackle, and Hal can guess what he’s going to use it for.

“Not bad,” Hotspur says, hand running underneath Hal’s body and tucking his cock between his own thighs in a move Hal remembers from the last time they did this, drunk and merry in an inn somewhere in London’s seedier quarters. God, they were young.

His other hand is rubbing hard over Hal’s arse, leaving no doubt about what part of Hal he’s currently expressing approval of. “I’m going to enjoy reaming this,” he says, thumb skating over Hal’s hole. “You always opened up so sweetly. Who’s been fucking you when I haven’t?”

Hal’s mind is empty for a second. Hotspur makes a disapproving noise and smacks him hard. Hard enough you’d think he picked up something to hit with, but no.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Yes,” says Hotspur and hits him again. “Who, majesty? I know you’re a tart, but you must remember at least one name.” Another hit. The throb of it is chasing every thought out of Hal’s head.

“Ned,” he says, finally, who’d definitely done that at least once. Twice. More times, probably, but Hal can’t think.

“Ned,” Hotspur says, considering. “That dark fellow who hung around you like he was waiting for scraps from the master’s table, that Ned?” Another hit. Two. Three. Fuck, it feels good. God, it hurts.

“Yes,” Hal says belatedly, realising Hotspur expects an answer.

“Not sure he’s got what it takes, really,” Hotspur says, thumb pressing lightly against Hal’s hole, a first breach, just nudging inside. “Can he make you take it?”

“Not like you,” Hal says, because there’s nothing but honesty left in him now. “Not like—fuck.”

Hotspur hums. Hits him again, and again. “You do take it well,” he tells Hal.

“It hurts,” he says.

“It’s going to hurt even more when I fuck you,” Hotspur says, and Hal can’t wait, suddenly.

“Please,” he says, “please, I want your cock, please—“

Hotspur laughs, low. “I told you you’d get more polite,” he says. “You’re getting there, majesty, you’re red all over, and I do love to see that. Your arse should always be red.”

“Makes me focus,” Hal agrees, something he didn’t mean to tell Hotspur, and he’s rewarded with a harder smack, reverberating through his whole body.

“How interesting,” Hotspur says, hitting him again. “Tell me more.”

“If it hurts,” he says, trying to put a sentence together that’ll explain it, moaning when Hotspur hits him again and again, “if I can’t sit right, I’ll, oh, fuck, feel it, and I won’t get so mad, or so reckless, because, fuck, the pain comes before, oh—“ he can’t finish, voice cracking into a moan, but Hotspur hushes him.

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad you told me that, majesty, it’s important. Five more and you’re finished, yes? And then I’ll fuck you.”

“Yes,” Hal says, because he’s ravenous for it, especially with the way everything hurts now.

“What was that?” Hotspur says.

Hal knows what to say now. “Please, your cock, please.”

“Yes,” Hotspur says, and Hal’s cock throbs at his tone. “Show me you want it,” he says. Hal closes his eyes, and arches his back, arse turned up for Hotspur’s hand.

Five more hits feel like explosions in his head, one after another, and he cries out, he knows he does but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. The last hit is harder than the rest, and Hal thinks about getting on a horse and about Hotspur fucking him through this and his voice cracks with want.

After, Hotspur rubs over his arse gently. “That was impressive,” he says. “Very good, majesty. I’ll think of that tomorrow, when you’re standing at the treaty signing.”

Hal isn’t quite at tomorrow yet. He wants, still, so he tries to arch his back a little more. Hotspur laughs.

“Slut,” he says, and reaches for the bottle. “You’ll get what you need.”

His fingers are knowing, twisting Hal open, and he whines for it, for Hotspur making a space for himself in Hal. It hurts, it hurts so much but it also feels good, this certain touch.

“I ought to make you ride me,” Hotspur says idly as Hal’s fingers scrabble for the blankets, clenching when Hotspur pushes in and finds exactly where he knows to go. “Bounce that red arse up and down.”

Hal has no words for that, has nothing left but sounds, now, and the way he can’t keep from writhing under Hotspur’s fingers.

“But perhaps you couldn’t,” Hotspur says, “no, I think I ought to make this easy for you.”

Nothing about this has been easy, Hal wants to say, but he doesn’t protest, because, because he doesn’t want to somehow. Hotspur tugs at his hair and leans forward so Hal can see his face.

“Come back, majesty,” he says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Hal nods, blinking at him slowly. He’s so hard, and he can feel that Hotspur is, too, even as he’s so patient, taking Hal apart.

Hotspur smiles, a bit of warmth reaching his eyes. “There you are,” he says. “Now be a good lad and lie still for me, and you’ll get what you need.”

Hal licks his lips, and feels the rebellion come back to the surface. Which was absolutely on purpose, the bastard. “You going to fuck me, or just talk about it?” he says.

Hotspur laughs. Adds a third finger, pushes in, and it’s tight and it hurts, especially with the way his arse is already on fire. “I’m already fucking you,” he says mildly.

“I want your cock,” Hal says pointedly.

“Mm,” Hotspur says, pulling his fingers out and, oh, that was a clean hit across his hole. Hal howls, because it burns, and Hotspur laughs, does it again.

“You, you—“ Hal says, voice cracking as Hotspur hits him a third time and a fourth.

“You’ll rouse the guard,” Hotspur says, wicked, and Hal laughs brokenly, rubbing his face against the blanket.

“Come,” he says, “you’ll have us here still when the treaty is meant to be signed. Fuck me, Harry Percy.”

“Wouldn’t that be a turn of events,” Hotspur muses, even as he shifts them both so that Hal is bent over the cot again, uncomfortably sprawled out. “Both the Harrys absent, what would they all do?”

“Get on much better;” Hal mutters and yelps when Hotspur pinches his arse.

“You digress,” he says, and spreads Hal open, pushing in.

God. His cock is — it’s _perfect_ , fat and broad and pushing him open much further than the fingers could. He bites down on the blanket before he can yell because he really will rouse the guards if he carries on like he used to when Hotspur fucked him in London, and oh, it hurts just right.

“Fuck,” Hotspur gets out, pushing in hard. “You’re tighter than I remember.”

“Because you haven’t been fucking me,” Hal says, spitting out the blanket and voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle of the phrase when Hotspur takes a tighter hold of his sore arse. He knows this rhythm, it’s Hotspur pushed beyond his admittedly extraordinary endurance, and Hal wants his hands unbound so he can take hold of himself and help this along, fuck, it’s too much to bear. He whines for it, for every dragging, aching push, and Hotspur gives it to him.

“God, you’re a good ride,” Hotspur says through gritted teeth.

“So ride,” he manages, and laughs as Hotspur pushes in harder, in and out and Hal’s going to spend, if Hotspur would just touch him.

“Please,” he says, whining for it and unable to help himself, trying to pull his hands free again, but Hotspur knows his knots and there's no getting free of this.

“Beg some more,” Hotspur says, voice hoarse, and Hal can beg, if that’s what he must do.

“Please, please, please,” he says, “please touch my cock, please, I need it, let me spend—“ his voice breaks into a moan when Hotspur finally does, pushing in and reaching around and pulling on his prick, as roughly as he does anything else. It only takes two pulls before Hal is spending, too wound up to do anything else, making a noise that would embarrass him if he wasn’t th.

“Little tart,” Hotspur says affectionately, and the drag of his cock now is too much, _too much_ , and Hal loves it, even as he pleads with Hotspur to stop.

“You’ll stand it until I finish, won’t you?” Hotspur says. It’s not a question, really.

Hal nods. He will.

And he does. Hotspur doesn’t take long to spend, in truth, already wound up beyond what even he can withstand, pushing in again and oh, Hal can feel it, Hotspur's spend inside him. _I wish you could plug me up,_ he thinks but doesn't say. Later. There'll be a later, and they can do that, then.

Hotspur lies over his back for a moment, then pushes himself off. Hal feels him tug at his arse.

“Inspecting your work?” he says, gasping out a laugh when that makes Hotspur pinch at his sore hole.

“You’re well ridden,” Hotspur says drily, smacking his arse and starting on his tied hands. Hal groans when he’s finally untied, wrists just as sore as the rest of him. Hotspur helps him pull up his breeches and then to maneuver into a seated position. Hal winces when his arse meets the cot, raising an eyebrow when that makes Hotspur’s mouth quirk.

“No, I rather doubt I’ll be sitting tomorrow when we sign the treaty,” Hal says, shifting gingerly. “Speaking of which, I ought to be making my way back, now.”

“If we had a proper bed,” Hotspur says, trailing off. It’s the first time he sounds hesitant.

“Don’t concern yourself unduly,” Hal says, and tries to stand up, only to find that his knees are rather unsteady and he needs Hotspur’s support.

“Do I need to help you back to your camp?” Hotspur says, the authority back in his voice. “There’s no point to the work you put in,” at this he grips Hal’s arse rather hard, “if you undo it by letting yourself be captured.”

“No,” Hal says, letting himself lean into Hotspur for a moment. Just for a moment. “No, I shall contrive.”

“Or I’ll take it out of your hide, again,” Hotspur says.

Hal grins, kissing his cheek. “I hope so,” he says archly.

There's not much more to be said, after that. He does return to his own camp without any undue trouble. Evading sentries is child’s play, compared to what he just won.

The next day, the treaty is signed with the two Harrys standing for it, Hotspur smiling, Hal trying to keep a straight face. His wrists are ringed with red under the braces; his arse and thighs are so sore, still. He told Hotspur the truth before. It makes it easier to do the right thing, this. And maybe, maybe, he will be able to steer the course right, if he can just have it. Have him.


End file.
